Restituire
by stargirl0507
Summary: Post-ep to 5.16, "Mosley Lane". Restituire; to return what was lost or owed. The prodigal son has returned, but he's not fitting into the slot society has for him. Charlie Hillridge has never had a 'Mom' before, and he's not sure how to go about it.


**Title: Restituire  
>Word Count: 976<br>Summary: Restituire; to return what was lost or owed. Charlie Hillridge hasn't had a 'Mom' before, and he's not quite sure how to go about it. Her child that was lost has not returned; he is a different child, but still trying to fit into the baby's place.  
>Beta: youdude (thanks so much, by the way.)<br>Author: stargirl0507 **

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><p>She tells me to call her "Mom."<p>

I don't understand. I have never had a "Mom". There was Evelyn, but she would scream and shout and slap if I called her "Mama." Only "Mother" was ever allowed. Royce, her husband, was always Royce—not "Father". But I have never had a "Mom".

Aiden and Katrina talked about their "Mommy". Veronica talked about her "Papa" and "Mimi". Melly tossed and turned at night, screaming for her "Daddy". Evelyn tired of that quickly; Melly did not last very long. But I still have her Polaroid.

I took Polaroids of all of them. In the beginning it was for the police; so that when they came they would know who had been there.

When the police never came, I took them for me. And for them. So that I would not forget them, and that they would have someone who still remembered.

Melly's mother wept, seeing that Polaroid. I keep the camera. It is under my pillow—my pillow in the soft bed that smells strange and clean and stiff, with the Buzz Lightyear sheets that I can half-recall if I try. "Mom" wakes me up in the morning, and I don't remember why I am here—why I am not still in that tiny room lit by a dirty lightbulb. Why I hear only a soft knock instead of a _creak_ followed by Royce's voice.

The woman I am supposed to call "Mom" is not as old as Evelyn. She has curly brown hair and wrinkles around her mouth—not the ones that Evelyn had, from anger, but from sadness. She has brown eyes like mine, and those are sad too, until she looks at me. Then they go from disbelief to a flash of fear that I don't understand to happiness. She is constantly touching me, too—like she cannot believe I am real.

We are supposed to go shopping today. I don't understand that either. I went shopping with Evelyn a few times, but she would always rush through, grabbing exactly what was on her list, looking furtively from left to right and hissing at me to keep my head down. She bought the cheapest and most of everything—canned beans and bread and tomato sauce. When I am with "Mom," she asks me what I want—Fruit Roll-Ups or Coca-Cola or Frosted Shredded Wheat. I have never had any of those things, not that I can remember. When I tell her this, she looks bewildered, then sad, then somehow angry. She pulls them off the shelves anyway, muttering about how they used to be my favorite. About how I will taste them again.

But this isn't that kind of shopping; this is what the woman from the FBI that told me to call her Jennifer says we should do. We are shopping for my room; she says that the bedclothes and walls are the remnants of me as my mother knew me, and not as I am now. She says this will help me to find myself as _Charles Hillridge, _not baby Charlie or David Roycewood.

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><p>"Mom" is saying something.<p>

I look up. "Sorry?" I ask, shuffling my feet and looking down. Evelyn would hit me if she ever caught me ignoring her, and I feel myself tense up in preparation for the blow.

"Which of these do you like, Charlie?"

I focus on what she is pointing at. There are bedspreads of every color and shape, with prints and shapes and edges and cutouts. There is a riot of color all around me, fully lit by fluorescent lights. So different from the dim yellowish glow that my eyes have become used to over the past thirteen years.

"This blue one? Or the yellow one?" she asks, pulling out bits of cloth so they pucker out from the wall. The colors she has chosen are bright, cheerful, innocent. My eyes hurt just looking at them.

I turn to a quieter section, of grays and dark blues and greens. They are a soothing counterpoint to the vibrant ones that "Mom" chose. I am drawn to one in particular, a navy blue with gray designs. "Can…can I have this one?"

"Mom" looks startled. "That one? Isn't it a bit…dark?"

_She doesn't like it. _I flinch. "We can get that one," I mutter, trying to hide behind my hair as I point to the one she chose. It doesn't obey; "Mom" took me for a haircut yesterday. That was bright too, bright and loud from the stylist talking and the hair dryer roaring and the children yelling. Hair that used to be regularly in my eyes now hits just above my eyebrows. It itches, and I rub the itch away.

"No, we can get the blue one. Are you sure you want that one, though?"

I nod. She looks at me, then away, then back, then away. Then she pulls the navy blue bedspread off the shelf and looks at me resolutely. "Give me a hand?"

It is in that moment, when she hefts the dark bedspread onto her shoulder and meets my eyes, that I know we will be all right. The Polaroid camera will stay under my pillow for now, and the pictures will never leave my mind, but they are memories now. In my mind's eye I can see Aiden, Katrina, Melly, Veronica, Bryan, Elizabeth—all the children that passed through my life and were printed on my cheap photo paper. They're looking back at me, not accusingly, like they always did before, but with gentleness. And in that moment, I know that they are at peace.

I reach out, impulsively, and take Mom's hand.

She looks down incredulously, at my big hand in her small trembling one, then back up at me; she slowly wraps her fingers around mine.

As we walk to the checkout counter, I swear I can hear laughter.


End file.
